Sweets and Tea, Love
by 67OtakuGirl24X3
Summary: Francis Bonnefoy doesn't get out much. But when he finally does, he learns it would have been better to stay home... Oneshot; 2P characters; FrUk.


_Sigh. _Another lonely, uneventful night. _Again. _Francis Bonnefoy smashed the tip of his overused cigarette into an ash tray with perhaps more force than necessary, no longer listening to the rerun of a French soap opera playing on his mediocre-quality television. Heaving about the millionth sigh that night, Francis ran his hand over face; good lord, he was in desperate need of a shave. Whatever. He'd get around to it.

His eyes, underlined by dark circles, flicked over to the clock glowing from the oven in his minuscule kitchen. Past midnight. "Now what was the point of staying up so late," he grumbled to himself. But then he realized he hadn't set his clock properly since he'd moved into this cruddy European apartment. Maybe he should check for the correct time on his cell phone…. Oh, wait. He'd thrown it away since nobody ever called.

_Ding-dong. _Francis jolted out of his slouching position on the sofa at the abrupt sound that rang throughout his apartment. What in holy hell was that? …Oh, yes. The doorbell. Wait, the doorbell? Who would come calling at _his _door? At such an hour (whatever hour that would be)? Probably just some brat and their friends pulling that ding-dong-ditch prank. Francis coughed heavily into his fist and stumbled to his feet with a grunt. Might as well humor himself. So he shuffled across the small room to his door, fiddled with the several locks, and yanked it open.

A peculiar strawberry-blonde haired man of about 23 stood directly outside, beaming up the few inches to Francis's face. "Hello, Mr. Bonnefoy!" Francis could have sworn he saw the man glance down at his hand as if reading off of its palm before speaking. Then again, what'd he know; he hadn't interacted with people for so long, he wouldn't know if it was natural to glance at your hand while speaking.

"…Bonjour," he muttered, raking his brain for a name to match this smiling face. Ah ha: this was Arthur Kirkland, from a few doors down. He wore a stupid little blue bow tie with a purple vest over a ridiculously pink long-sleeved shirt, and Francis vaguely recalled a reputation of being the friendliest person in the entire apartment complex. It took all of Francis's willpower not to close the door in his face.

"I don't believe I've had the honor of speaking with you yet," Arthur peeped, tilting his head slightly. Francis simply quirked an eyebrow in response. "I was wondering if you'd like to come over for some sweets and tea, love."

What was this "love" business? Francis tightened his grip on the door, ready to slam it shut, and opened his mouth to decline, yet what came out was: "Sure." Arthur's expression brightened even further.

"Brilliant! Are you busy right now?"

"_Nobody's _busy this late at night," Francis practically growled. Arthur let out a brief cheery laugh.

"It's only 5:30 in the evening." Wow, Francis's clock really _was _off.

Before Francis could even begin to back out of the situation, Arthur had taken his hand like they were childhood friends and dragged him down the hall while blithely humming _London Bridge_. Nowadays, Francis's mind was usually clouded, so he wasn't exactly positive as to whether this was a weird dream, or a surprising twist in his nightmarish life.

The apartment he entered was rather delicate, like an elderly woman's living room: lavender painted walls; light pink armchairs; matching pillows with golden lace; a well-kept potted plant; candles set on little tables; beautiful paintings of pixies and desserts hanging on the walls… Most men would be ashamed to live in such a place, though really, Arthur didn't seem like he'd come from anywhere else. And to think Francis was only working off of his first impression.

"Sit down, Fran. May I call you Fran? Well, make yourself comfortable," Arthur chimed, ignoring Francis's muttered "Non." Feeling a headache coming on, Francis hesitantly sat himself in one of the cushiony arm chairs. He felt so out of place in this sugary-sweet apartment with his (literally) dirty blonde hair, black jeans, unwashed dark blue dress shirt, and permanent aura of cigarette smoke… Oh well. It's not like he was going to get used to this anyway.

He was so distracted by his muggy thoughts that he didn't hear Arthur speak the first time. "How do you take your tea?" he repeated, not appearing even slightly peeved by Francis's oblivion.

"Hot?" Francis replied absently. Arthur chuckled, shaking his head fondly. Francis raised an eyebrow, sliding a cigarette out of his pocket. Why was this Arthur guy acting as if they weren't total strangers?

While Arthur disappeared into the kitchen to set an antique-looking teapot on the stove, humming once more, Francis looked around the room uninterestedly. Although he couldn't exactly place it, there was something… weird about this place. Beyond the fact that it looked like it was inhabited by a 70 year old woman as opposed to a 23 year old man. There was just this overall aura of foreboding that added greatly to Francis's discomfort.

Then again, maybe that was just his lack of social interaction chipping away at him.

He gripped the arms of his chair, ready to stand up and slip out, when Arthur's head popped around the doorway. "I was just about to make up some cupcakes. Would you care for any?"

"I don't care," Francis mumbled honestly, staring at the ground to avoid Arthur's sunny gaze. Taking that as a yes, Arthur vanished back into the kitchen and emerged a few seconds later with a tray holding two teacups and a few little pots.

"You can add as much sugar and milk as you like, Fran. There are some mint leaves right here, too," Arthur explained, pointing at a little ceramic container as he set the tray on a coffee table in front of Francis. The Frenchman had every intent of taking his cup and pouring it into the nearest potted plant when Arthur looked away, but that obviously wouldn't happen seeing as his host sat himself in the chair directly beside him. So instead, Francis distracted himself by lighting up a cigarette and pressing it to his lips.

Arthur's thick eyebrows came together in a pout. "Don't you realize how _awful _those things are for your health?" Francis puffed a little cloud of smoke into the air.

"I don't really give a damn."

"That's no attitude to have," Arthur scolded, leaning over the gap between their chairs to grab Francis's wrist before he could take another drag on his cigarette.

It was then that something Francis had only read about in a novel he'd read out of utter boredom happened. When Arthur grabbed his wrist, everything seemed to freeze- his heart, his breathing, time itself… The only part of Francis's skin that still felt alive was the area Arthur's hand was touching. The Brit was so close that he couldn't help but meet his gaze; he could feel his jaw drop slightly as he stared into those eyes. They were the most beautiful shade of icy blue, ringed with a slightly darker shade and flecked with actual pink. The pupils were so light that they were lost in the dazzling orbs.

Plus, at this closeness, Francis could easily smell Arthur's hypnotically sweet cologne.

"How about you just suck on a sugar cube while I go check on the cupcakes, love?" Arthur offered, slackening his grip on Francis's list. Francis had to quickly shoot down the sudden disappoint that swelled up in his chest as well as the fluttery sensation at being called "love." He haughtily yanked his hand away, dropped his cigarette onto the pinkish-beige carpet and popped a cube of sugar into his mouth. Arthur smiled in contentment as he nearly skipped back into the kitchen.

_What the hell was that? _The question swirled around Francis's mind while he waited. He'd heard of the whole "love at first sight" thing… But why would he fall for such a _weirdo? _Though, that British accent _was _rather lovable… And opposites _do _attract… Besides: Francis hadn't had a relationship (if having sex once then never speaking again counted as a relationship) since he was a teenager, maybe young adult. When a Frenchman goes so long without romance- or any human interaction at all- it was only natural that he'd throw himself at the first person that opened up to him.

Francis knew what he'd have to do, no matter the rashness.

After no more than 5 minutes, the unmistakable scent of baking wafted throughout the whole apartment. Arthur returned wearing purple oven mitts and carrying a pan topped with neat rows of pink frosted cupcakes, not a crumb out of place. Francis channeled all his energy into summoning the shameless flirt he used to be. "You made those yourself? They look _professional." _Well so much for that. Hey, at least he was trying.

If Arthur looked pleased before, he was about to die of pleasure right now. "Professional, hm? Well thank you, love! I made them from scratch, you know."

"_Did _you? Very impressive indeed," Francis pretended to be impressed. Arthur giggled, carefully placing his cupcakes beside the tea tray and sliding his oven mitts off once he was seated next to Francis again.

"You're too flattering, Fran. Now how about you go on and take a bite; see if they taste as good as they look? I'm sure you won't be disappointed." Francis was too set on having this night end the way he planned on to notice how unnaturally persistent Arthur sounded. He also didn't notice that those magnificent eyes of his were unblinking, except for the occasional paranoid-like twitch.

Since the sugar cube had already dissolved completely in his mouth, Francis didn't hesitate to pluck one of the cupcakes off the pan, blow on it, and take a bite. He could barely contain a moan of pleasure as the taste washed over his tongue. The batter was neither chocolate nor vanilla; if anything, it was a combination of both. The icing was quite obviously strawberry, and although very sweet it wasn't sickeningly so… Smiling for what felt like the first time in months- no, _years_- Francis eagerly took another bite…. and almost gagged.

There was another flavor. Something familiar. Something that _did not _belong in any sort of food item. It didn't have a texture, since it seemed to have been baked directly into the cupcake, but something told Francis it was originally a liquid…

He hastily set down the cupcake and reached for a cup of tea.

"So how long have you been living here, love?" Arthur asked, crossing his legs and taking a bite of cupcake. The extra flavor obviously didn't faze him.

Francis felt himself cringe at the repeated use of "love," though he didn't particularly _dislike _it. If Arthur was acting like they were already close, that'd just make his job so much easier. "Since I was 20, so… 6 years," he answered, stirring a mint leaf around his tea with a hope it'd give the beverage some flavor. He normally didn't drink much besides coffee and wine, and he wasn't quite liking this whole "tea" thing (especially with its god-awful aftertaste). Yet for some reason, that sip he took made him feel… calmer.

"6 years, hm? Blimey, I've only been here a couple months," Arthur exclaimed, munching away at his cupcake while dabbing at his lips with a lacy white napkin on occasion. Francis didn't take note of the fact that he was yet to touch his tea.

"And you already have a reputation," Francis murmured unintentionally. Arthur titled his head, still smiling casually.

"What was that, love?"

"Oh, nothing," Francis assured him quickly, taking a quick sip of his tea. He was growing accustomed to the taste, though still wasn't particularly fond of it. "…Arthur… I know we only just met and all, but, I need to… do something." Heart racing, Francis got halfway to his feet and leaned over to Arthur's chair. He caught a quick glimpse of those amazing, unconventional eyes before hastily pressing his lips against the Brit's.

It had been years since he kissed anyone… He'd performed a little messily, but at least he got to experience the overall sensation again. His eyes fluttered open in surprised when he felt Arthur's lips caress his in return, and he hungrily lengthened the kiss until he had no choice but to pull back for air.

He wasn't quite sure what to make of the fact that Arthur's smile had not altered since before the sudden action. "That was nice, Fran, though I admit I wasn't too fond of the cigarette smoke flavor."

Funny he'd say that, because Francis was just thinking about how Arthur's lips tasted: a delectable combination of sugary frosting and tea, despite not having drunk the beverage since having Francis in his presence. That was quite pleasant… but Francis soon realized there was another flavor there. Not the chocolate/vanilla combination of the cupcake batter; that strangely familiar taste that Francis now concluded was rather irony. It completely dominated Arthur's lips, overriding the sugary sweetness. Francis knew he had tasted it before, yet when….? Oh, yes, that was it! When he had accidentally bit his tongue so hard he caused it to bleed…..

Blood. Arthur's cupcakes and lips tasted of blood.

Panic rising within him, Francis gulped down at least half his tea in attempt to erase the taste from his mouth, and hopefully memory. Panting and gulping, he noticed as the beverage reached his stomach that the relaxation the tea made him feel had transitioned into wooziness. It felt quite like he'd drank too many glasses of wine, even though the cup of tea wasn't even drained completely. "_Excusez-moi_, I'm feeling kind of sick… I'm going to use the restroom real quick," Francis uttered, clutching his head and staggering toward the apartment's tiny hall.

"Hurry back, love!" Arthur called after him cheerily. The moment Francis's back was turned to him, his delighted grin melted into a malicious smirk.

The walls and floor were shifting more and more with each step Francis took. All he could do was think, _He drugged my tea. That bastard drugged my tea. _All apartments were designed the same in this building, so he knew exactly where the bathroom should be located, yet everything was starting to spin to the point that he couldn't tell left from right or up from down. He groped the nearest door for its handle, twisting it open and praying it was at least a bedroom so he could lay down.

He had never been more off in his life.

Francis braced himself against the doorway, pausing long enough to at least make the room stand still. Maybe, though, it would have been better if he _couldn't _see. When his droopy eyes focused on the sight before him, terror struck his heart so abruptly that all that escaped his throat when he intended to scream was a slight shriek. What he'd walked into was a double-wide closet, but there were no clothes hangers or coats inside: instead, there were bodies. Dead, human bodies. Every gender, from older teenager to middle-aged. Their eyes were still open, though many had rolled back into their heads, and each and every one was pale as a sheet. They all had an incision mark above a vein, like on their necks or arms. To put it simply: it was obvious that they'd all bled to death.

There was one corner of the closet that was empty of bodies, although taken up by a box full of assorted tools: eyedroppers; strainers; funnels; needles; measuring cups… Everything had at least a little bit of red stained upon it.

Escape. Francis had to escape. He was still dizzy, though, and felt like he'd fall asleep if he so much as blinked, plus he could hear Arthur's gentle singing: "_London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down…" _Panic overtaking him, Francis turned around quicker than he could handle and ended up sprawling face-first out into the hallway. It took almost all he had to force his eyes open again, and was met with the sight of a pair of pink loafers. He leisurely turned his gaze upward to see Arthur smiling down at him brightly; _maliciously._

"I told you I'm not fond of the smoky flavor, but hopefully it won't turn up in the cupcakes," the Englishman crooned, kneeling down and taking Francis's unshaven chin in his hand. Those eccentric eyes of his burned into France's plainer, dark purple ones, piercing his very being.

"What the hell is going on…" Francis croaked. This had to be a dream. He must've had way too much ice cream, fallen asleep on the couch, and was having a crazy nightmare… That _had _to be it… Whatever Arthur had slipped into Francis's drink was causing reality and fantasy to seep together until they were undistinguishable from each other, so Francis truly believed that if he just closed his eyes, he'd wake up on his grubby couch in just a few hours…

"Go to sleep, love," Arthur purred. "You're going to be _delicious._"


End file.
